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| Rocky Times |
| January 19, 2008 |
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| Dog Day
Ixie the Barangay Captain barely remembered hunger. He missed the Ramadan daytime fast, the way his feelings came to the surface without food to hide behind. Ixie could laugh or cry easily during those forty days. Not that his family overate during the rest of the year. For three months in between rice and corn harvest, there were times of only one sparse meal of camote tops—sweet potato leaves—if he and his brothers failed at hunting or fishing. So they seldom failed. Armed with slingshot and kris knives, the brothers returned with birds, frogs, mice, fish, a slow dog and, one glorious evening, an angry boar who came within inches of goring Ixie. They would sometimes be gone overnight, climbing mountains and fording rivers to track their prey. He shook off the memories and walked to his giant pigsty, where a man sharpened a bolo knife in easy rhythm. “Let me kill this pig.” “Nix, Ix. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got the babooey. Just relax, boss.” The worker tied the pig’s feet together, causing it to squeal in loud protest. One smooth stroke with the blade across its throat drew a curtain of blood after it. The crying stopped and the animal kept its eyes open to watch life seep back into the dust under its stilling body. “You really should let your employer do the work for once.” “What good is being boss if you can’t put your feet up and drink a beer, di ba? Keep yourself neat and clean. We’ll save you the best of Billy Babooey after he’s finished dancing around the fire.” Ixie sighed and went back to his concrete house. A blast of air-conditioned chill greeted him coming through the door. Was that its hum or were his ears ringing? His body felt like a puzzle put together the wrong way by a three year-old. Was he just feeling his age? Forty-five, almost forty-six years old—his father was already an old man at this age, body worn out from working too hard in the fields and eating too little at the table, five years away from death. A few months ago, Ixie was still strong. His wife was going to nursing school, and he stayed up nights reading her textbooks, wondering which of the diseases were his already. When Ixie couldn’t contemplate diseases anymore, he opened the Koran and its commentaries, searching for a way out of his fear. His puppy, “Fighter,” sat in front of their bedroom door, looking confused. There was patchy fur and wounds on his back, and he whimpered when Ixie tried to pick him up. The bigger dogs had ganged up on him all week. His wife materialized from around a corner. “Nee! Very hugaw—dirty. You need to put your pet outside. Who knows what sickness he gets from being bitten?” Ixie had watched as one of his neighbors struggled to break the ropes tying him to a hospital bed, screaming and snarling as he died from rabies. “Those other dogs will kill him if he goes outside. Can’t you see he’s hurt?” The anger in his voice teared up his wife’s eyes immediately. “You pet that dog more than you touch me. I don’t think even the Muslims will let you marry Fighter.” How did she know that he was ready to convert? Fifteen years sharing the same bed? Ixie bent down to pick up Fighter, grabbing him roughly around the wounds, and the puppy squealed. “You’re lucky not to be dinner.” He squeezed the dog hard, and Fighter turned his head towards the pain and bit down. “Yow!” Ixie saw the blood on his hands and opened the front door to throw the dog outside. Fighter landed at the feet of a young girl—Candy had finally shown up to work. “Sir? Should I come back?” “I love my dog.” Ixie picked up the puppy, who was lying on his side crying, tail between its legs. “I love animals.” “Yes, sir.” “I’m happy that you came. Have you met my children yet?” “No, sir.” “Come inside, Candy. Don’t be shy.” “Yes, sir. Your hand is bleeding.” “Are you scared of blood? I hope no—because I’m not.” “I’ll wash that for you.” The same attitude that made Filipinas the most popular nurses worldwide guided Candy to the sink, where she used soap and water to clean the bite. Ixie saw his blood circling the drain, and thought of the rabies-infected man howling alone to his end. Ixie wasn’t frightened of the blood. He was afraid that if he couldn’t convince himself that God existed, only death’s black hole loved him enough to wait. The questions in his mind were too hard to think about, and impossible to ignore. He was happy for the pain to drown them out. He felt Candy’s soft touch. Maybe pleasure could do some drowning too. |